


The White Ship

by Vainor



Series: the Matter of Song [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vainor/pseuds/Vainor
Summary: Maglor at the Swanhaven.
Relationships: Amras & Amrod (Tolkien), Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: the Matter of Song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943056
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	The White Ship

**Author's Note:**

> Nelyo=Maedhros=Nelyafinwë  
> Kano=Maglor=Kanafinwë  
> Turco=Celegorm=Turkafinwë.  
> Morio=Caranthir=Morifinwë.  
> Curvo=Curufin=Curufinwë.  
> Telvo=Amras=Telufinwë.  
> Pityo=Amrod=Pityafinwë  
> Ñolofinwë=Fingolfin  
> Findekáno=Fingon  
> Telperinquar=Celebrimbor  
> Laurelin: the Golden Tree of Aman
> 
> 中文原版：https://vainor.lofter.com/post/1d0f5e3c_1ca90d45d

Blood stains everywhere.

The night was still dark, like a piece of unmeltable ink. No star appeared in the sky, no light— except the fire burning upon the ground. It’s flame melted with blood and the blood spread, then faded into the dreary night. All elements together expanded like a road leading to the dark.

Maglor was walking on the road to the sea. His hand was still holding on his sword, which he grasped so hard that the hilt frayed his palm, but he dared not to loosen his grip. For if he loosened his grip on the sword, he was not confident that he would be brave enough to pick it up again.

There was still something shining in the night. Metal— mostly industrial hammers, axes, awls, even some arrows from hunting bows and few home daggers laid on the masonry ground. Most Teleri had no weapon when they joined this sudden conflict and their tools were the only thing they had for protection. When these metals touched the flame, a white luminous spot appeared, which was as pale as a shaking soul.

Blood dripped from Maglor’s sword.

He was looking for his brothers.

A fog covered the night, making the view obscure. However, Maglor did not light a torch for himself, for when he and the world were in the dark, the dark protected him— hiding him under it’s black wings. But if Maglor lit a fire, he would be exposed, becoming a bright target. The fire would have illuminated the armour he wore, telling every Teleri that there was a living enemy.

Maglor walked carefully on the path. It seemed as if they had won that battle. However, Maglor was not so sure about this. No one could know what will happen next in such an unexpected battle. Just like Maglor used to be away from his brothers for a while, he led his people towards the crowd where things began to get out of control. He had meant to reconcile the conflict, but then, he received the order to attack. Maglor’s father, Fëanor, the High King of the Noldor, ordered the Noldor to take the ships.

It all happened so fast.

At the beginning, there was just a quarrel between the Teleri and the Noldor. The King of Teleri refused to give or lend their vessels to them, thus making their host stuck at Alqualondë the Swanhaven. Soon enough, the spat escalated into a physical altercation. What happened next became very hazy. It was not longer than a quarter-hour between Maglor leaving his brothers and receiving the order to attack.

Under this straightforward command, Maglor found something more terrible— Fëanor’s fear… or madness. Maglor felt nervous at that moment. His father’s command resounded in his ears. He tried to imagine the voice that Fëanor used when giving an order— sweat was exuding from his hands.

But Maglor obeyed him— for fear or duty... he could not tell.

At that time, the conflict escalated. Somebody threw stones and somebody drew their bows. When the first blood had dropped, the Noldor raced their swords. When Maglor tried to stop the conflict from advancing further, he found out that there was nothing he could do. The first Teleri fell under his sword and then came the second. The third followed and so on. In the beginning, Maglor tried his best to avoid leaving fatal injuries to the Teleri, but since the battle was ongoing, it was beyond his control.

When Maglor finally stopped swinging his sword, the white beach of Alqualondë was turned to bloody red. Furthermore, when he looked around the haven, all he could see was the glare beaming off somebody’s sword. Additionally, there were illegible figures that showed up and faded again into the night. He moved his ankle, then touched an anonymous body lying beside his foot.

Maglor’s heartbeat was as fast as if his heart was about to explode.

Before he could think of any reaction, his body moved first. It took him awhile to realize that he was actually looking for something. In the pile of fallen or fighting elves, he was looking for his own brothers— he had to find them, for he had to know if they were still alive.

Maglor kept walking down to the sea. After passing a corner, he saw a light appearing upon the road. Unlike those faint fires dying upon the ground or flames holding by rushing Noldor who were trying to find their family members, this light was stable— like a lamp in the never-ending-night. Following his own instinct of chasing the light, Maglor walked towards it.

Then he found the first son of Fëanor. The red haired Noldo was standing by a white ship of the Teleri when Maglor spotted him. A watchfire was held by his left hand and his long sword was retracted into the scabbard. Maglor could not see his eldest brother’s face, since Maedhros kept his back to him when Maglor was walking nearby.

Maedhros was studying that ship. He looked at it quietly and intently, as if he was staring at a piece of art. The fire on his hand was bright, making the corner of the ship shine it’s light.  
“Nelyo,” Maglor called his brother.

Maedhros turned his head. In the light of the fire, Maglor saw Maedhros’s face and was shocked by the terrible look. It was so awful that Maglor refused to admit it was his brother’s face.

When had the first son of Fëanor been so undignified? The noble prince of Tirion always appeared with great elegance and gentleness. When he was standing on the top of the city, with the world lying before him and the royal palace standing behind him— that was how Maedhros looked in Maglor’s memory.

Now Maedhros’s face was dusted with mud and blood. A strand of his red hair was hanging down on his face, like a withered vine of winter. The blood on his forehead didn't seem to be his own, but there was an open wound in the corner of his eye, where the blood kept flowing.

Maglor opened his mouth.

“Blood,” Maedhros looked at his first brother and said.

Maglor froze at that second. It took him a while to find out that Maedhros was talking about his face. Maglor raised his hand, which was still holding the sword and wiped the blood off his own face, thus drawing a dried blood stain on the back of his hand. Maglor looked at the trail and didn’t know what to say.  
At the end of the silence, he let out a sigh— as he had never sighed before.

Maglor retracted his sword into the scabbard and Maedhros turned his sight back to the ship.

“This is the reason they rejected us,” Maedhros spoke to him.

Maglor followed his brother and looked up. This was not the first time he saw a white ship of the Teleri. He used to visit Alqualondë, when Fëanor had not yet made the Silmarils. As a poet and a singer, Maglor came here and listened to another nation’s voice. He once stepped on another white ship, standing on its flat white deck, seeing the living sea shining under the daylight and the looming shore on the distant horizon.  
That shore was their destination now.

“‘The work of our hearts’”, Maedhros spoke again.

The work of our heart, it’s the word that the king of Teleri used to describe their white ships.

“Beautiful,” he commented.

Maglor looked at Maedhros’s face. Under that terrible look there was a deep calm— like if he was mourning or contemplating the consequences of their grave deeds. Maglor rarely saw this expression on his brother’s face, after all there were not many things for them to be upset about in Valinor, the blessed realm. Only once, when they went to the Gardens of Lórien, facing their sleeping grandmother; Maglor saw Maedhros show this kind of expression.

Now Maglor felt that the person standing next to him was indeed his brother.

“Indeed,” Maglor said. His voice became peaceful and he felt the anxiety slowly receding from him. Maglor heard his heartbeat calming down.

He then let out another breath, slowly.

Maedhros gave his younger brother a specific look— his eyes were asking if Maglor was okay. Maglor attempted to force a smile, but he failed. The muscles on his face were too stiff. Maglor licked his lips, tasting the blood in his mouth. Then he realized that it might not be his own blood. A daunting memory reappeared in Maglor’s mind, he thought of a Teleri who was trying to kill him. He was reminded of the hatred on that person’s face and the sound of the metal and bricks colliding as the elf fell down.

Maglor immediately cupped his mouth with his right hand. A strong churn erupted in his stomach. This brought him a distorted dizziness— like the dead coming back and dragging his foe to hell.

Maedhros stepped forward, trying to support him. In turn, Maglor grabbed the wrist of his brother, trying to remain stable. Maglor looked up and Maedhros noticed that his brother’s eyes were filled with pain.

“‘Fair shall the end be .’” He struggled to speak, “Do you believe it?”

Maedhros froze at that unexpected question for one second, then he grabbed back onto Maglor’s arm.

“Everyone will keep going now,” he said.

The sharp pain forced Maglor to shut his eyes. Maedhros’s word were euphemistic and Maglor understood what he meant. However, if they considered this kinslaying as a necessary loss, making this massacre no more than a painful sacrifice to continue this great revenge— was the price too high? Before the royal palace, Fëanor promised them _freedom_ and _fair_ , to _become masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda_ . And with this kind of blood on their hands, did they still deserve what Fëanor had offered? And what did Fëanor really offer? Were they still on the way to the fair end? Have they ever been on the road to the fair end?

Fëanor did have the threat of death, but it was for those who tried to _hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril_ — which they should still be far from for now.

Maglor began to cough violently.

“What had we done?”

Maedhros looked at his younger brother and held his hand tightly.

“Kano”—

“It won’t be bright again,” Maglor spoke at the same time, “This night will never pass.”

“It won’t be bright again indeed,” Maedhros repeated his brother’s words, “so we have to find our own light.”

Maglor looked at him.

“So you believe him,” He said, with heavy breathing.

“I believe us,” Maedhros replied, “and the vast shore.”

Maglor released Maedhros’s arm.

“So you believe in the future and fate,” he thought, “with the confidence to control it.”

Maglor did not know if he could believe in these similar things. He used his sleeves to wipe off the blood in his mouth, while his black hair slid down from his shoulder as if he was exhausted. The torch held by Maedhros was still luminous, but Maglor began to feel it was too blinding.

“Turco, Morio, and Curvo are checking the ships; if you keep going you will see them,” Maedhros spoke. He changed the topic before the silence kept growing.

“Telvo doesn't feel good and Pityo is with him. They are already on the ship. Some of them have gotten injured,” he paused a second, “but they are all safe.”

Their brothers were all safe.

Maglor felt relief at that moment.

“And father?” He asked.

“Father is at the forefront,” Maedhros said. His voice suddenly became unnatural, “Ñolofinwë is coming. He and his people have joined the fight. Now he is calling himself FinwëÑolofinwë.”

Maglor froze. FinwëÑolofinwë, their father’s half-blood brother had put their grandfather’s name before his own, which meant he was swearing by his inheritance rights for the crown. Maglor frowned.

“What did father say?” He asked again.

“I don’t know,” Maedhros replied back. He looked into the dark night, “I didn’t follow them.”

Maglor fell silent. Ñolofinwë was there, which meant their cousin should have also arrived. However, Maedhros may not want to meet his former friends at this time.

Maglor looked at the blood on the back of his hand.

“I’m gonna find father,” he said, “... I have questions for him.”

Maedhros looked at him silently, but nodded his head.

And then Maglor left. As he was walking, Maedhros’s beam of light slowly shrank behind him and there was darkness back again. On the wharf there were more torches, but the flames only left a dim glimmer of light. As the path extended, Maglor saw more ships. The ground had been simply cleared— the metals were gone, which revealed the blood underneath.

The haven has been occupied by the Noldor. Maglor began to see more familiar faces, some of them saw him and then saluted, greeting him with the words, “Your Highness”. Most of them had blood covered on their bodies. Maglor looked around. There was some blood that had also stained the ships as if the white woods itself had been injured. The fire exposed most of things which were once hidden by the dark. Maglor saw many people lying on the side of the path, arranged in a neat row, with blankets long enough to cover their faces. Some were not covered entirely, showing their sleeping faces.

Maglor suddenly hoped the fire would be dimmed again.

He stopped a passerby, asking if he knew where the princes were. Then, he learned that his two youngest brothers were on the nearby ship.

Before he left, Maglor looked intently at that young Noldo, who saluted him and left. The person’s face was covered with exhaustion. He was holding a brown blanket, walking toward a sleeping body.

Maglor quickened his pace.

His youngest brother was the most seriously injured.

Amrod was bandaging Amras’ leg up when Maglor saw him. An arrow had shot his shin. The arrowhead was removed from his flesh. Maglor stared at the ripped trouser and the blood on it; then he frowned.  
“Kano, you are here,” the injured one spoke to him.

The cabin was bright, Maglor looked at his youngest brother and saw a water trail in the corner of his eyes, guessing he had just cried. Amras ducked his head, avoiding Maglor’s gaze.

“I’m fine, Kano. It’s not a big deal…”

“Don’t move,” Amrod raised his voice.

The two youngest sons of Fëanor were red headed twins. They were similar to each other in both appearance and demeanor that only their closest kinfolks can tell their subtle differences.

“...Okay,” the younger one replied. He lowered his head and a strand of hair slid from his ear. Unlike their eldest brother’s copper hair, the twins’ hair was more like red maple leaves, and the elder of the twin’s hair colour was darker than his brothers.

Maglor squatted down beside them. There was a wound on Amrod’s hand. It was not as bad as the one on Amras’ leg, but it was still an awful sight. Maglor took the bandage from Amrod.

“I’ll take care of him,” Maglor said. He patted Amrod’s shoulder, “go and cure your own hand.”

With some hesitation, Amrod listened to what Maglor had said.

The rest of their time was dominated by silence. Amras kept his mouth shut as Maglor was bandaging him. At times, the pain was so bad that he tightened his hand to silence his voice.

Amrod was staring at them the entire time. He did not want anyone else to touch his twin brother, which is the reason he didn’t go and find a surgeon. Instead, he did all the treatment by himself. Maglor understood exactly how Amrod felt. He had asked him to take care of himself, but he didn’t go find a surgeon either.

Maglor always knew there was a possibility that his brothers may be injured during the battle. There were 9 members of Fëanor’s family who started this great journey. The most serious injury among all of them was an archery wound, which had been treated properly. Maglor thought of those Noldor and Teleri who lay on the side of the path, knowing that this could have easily been his own family. However, he still felt scared. If Amras got injured while he was fighting with others, about to withstand an incoming knife, the shock of the incoming arrow could have been fatal. If this really happened...

Then Maglor felt Amras’ hand by his upper arm.

“I’m okay, Kano,” Amras said, “Really.”

Maglor noticed his facial expression might have a terrible look. Moments ago, Maedhros had basically pointed out the same thing to him. He remembered the growing silence between them, acknowledging that his own face would not look better than anyone else’s.

Amrod approached them, holding a damp towel in his hand. Maglor took the towel and placed it on his face. The water-soaked towel felt cold, feeling like frigid metals on his face.

Amrod sat by his younger brother. Amras’ eyes were dim, like if the fire in his soul was about burn out. Maglor was worried by Amras’ terrible condition. He thought maybe he could play a gentle song for him, which can bring him a feeling of peace and calmness. However, melodies died in his mind. Maglor tried to remember a rhythm, but only heard the sound of knives and swords.

Maglor tightened his grip on Amras’ shoulder.

“Stay here,” Maglor said. He also looked at Amrod, “...I will come back.”

Maglor couldn’t stay here any longer, for he had to find their father. He had answers to seek— for his brothers and for himself.

Maglor left the cabin.

The next brother Maglor found was Celegorm, or you can say Maglor was found by him. The fairest hunter of Valinor was instinctively perceptive— noticing Maglor from a far distance. Maglor saw there was a figure waving at him by the firelight, recognizing Fëanor’s third son’s unusual voice.

“Kano!” Celegorm shouted.

Maglor walked toward him. Celegorm’s right side was surrounded by his guards, his left side was guarded by his dog. He looked more kempt than the others, as if he had just cleaned his face.

Celegorm also walked toward Maglor at an urgent speed. They stopped within two steps of each other. Celegorm closely examined Maglor. After confirming that Maglor was fine, he released a sigh of relief.

  
“You are not injured,” Celegorm removed his hand from the sword, “great.”

“Turco,” Maglor nodded to him, “you…”

“I’m fine,” Celegorm answered quickly. “Morio and Curvo were also unhurt. We didn’t take such a great loss.” He began to look around the haven, “But the twins are not good. Telvo got shot. If I had arrived one second later, we may have lost him.” Celegorm’s eyes suddenly turned from calmness to anger. He remarked, “We sent those cowards to their fate. Also, Pityo refuses to leave his brother and is rejecting the healer’s help— insisting on curing Telvo himself. Luckily, he was not severely wounded and Pityo is doing good.”

“I have seen them,” Maglor said in that moment, “I told them not to come out.”

Celegorm paused for a second. “Fine,” he said. Then he turned to face the sea which had many ships. “We are counting the ships and are assigning them. Morio is checking on our casualties.” He paused again, “But anyways, we have taken the haven. Those Teleri cannot stop us— no one can stop us. Look at those white ships, Kano, they are our trophies now…”

Maglor gazed at Celegorm’s silver haired head, noticing that he was trying to avoid any eye contact with him.

Maglor raised his arm.

“Turco,” he said.

Celegorm jumped when Maglor touched his shoulder, trembling with nervousness. He suddenly became mute, like a locked string on a harp,  
“...I have seen Nelyo,” Maglor spoke again, “we...talked a while. He told me where you were.”

Celegorm turned to Maglor.

“Where is Nelyo?” He asked.

“Go along this path, it is a dark place.” Maglor answered and paused for a second. “I heard that Ñolofinwë is there?”

“Ñolofinwë? Nelyo told you that?” Celegorm replied with his eyebrows raised. “It was Findekáno who came first. Nelyo and Findekáno used to fight together; however, after victory I cannot seem to find him. He…”

Then he stopped. Celegorm had a mix of emotions on his face. He turned away and surveyed the sea, frowning as he was looking for an answer that he knew did not exist.

Celegorm tossed his head, shaking away these thoughts.

“We need him,” he spoke in a deeper voice.

Maglor remained silent for a while.

“Is father in the forefront?” Maglor asked eventually.

“Yes he is,” Celegorm said. He stared at his brother, “Why? Are you looking for him?”

Maglor nodded. Celegorm stared at him as if he was crazy.

“You better not go,” He warned.

“I have questions for him,” Maglor said.

“Then you mustn’t go.” Celegorm said with fear in his eyes. “Father looks... unusual.”

That is uncommon. Maglor frowned. It seems that Fëanor was not mad, nor proud— for they can finally go further. No, those things would not let Maglor’s brother, son of Fëanor, feel afraid.

The worries in Maglor’s heart began to grow. He mindlessly rubbed the strap of his sword belt with his finger. Maglor looked around the wharf— a troop was assembling. Maglor saw a figure standing on the stage, thinking it might be one of his brothers.

“What did father say?” He asked.

“He was tackling Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë,” Celegorm answered, “Curvo was with him. He asked me to organize troops to possibly come to the aid of the Teleri and asked Morio to count the casualties. We are doing it.” He pointed to the side of the path as he was talking, where their fourth brother was standing before their fallen companions. “I have to go, Kano. Curvo is organizing the ships and you will meet him on the end of the path. A little bit farther is Ñolofinwë’s host,” Celegorm paused with a deep breath, “don’t go farther.”

Maglor nodded, but promised nothing.

Caranthir had a bad temper. Maglor’s most irascible brother raised his eyebrows in fury, looking angrily at the things around him.

Then, Maglor knew he was fine. Caranthir was angry, which meant something had happened and he couldn't handle it; however, it also showed that he was full of energy and ready to go. Maglor appreciated this about Caranthir, for he knew that things would turn terrible if his fourth brother stopped being angry.

“Obstinate, stupid, weak— meaningless!”

Maglor listened to his brother’s muttering and decided to leave him alone.

Then, Maglor met his last brother. Fëanor’s favorite son looked quite similar to his father, he stood on the stage like it was Fëanor himself who was standing there.

“Curvo,” Maglor called his name as he approached him.

Curufin turned his head. His face looked coldly calm. There were no emotions in Curufin’s eyes. He looked at Maglor, as if they were still in Tirion. They had never departed from there— the things he was commanding were not blood smudged white ships, but those who decided to leave Tirion.

“Kano.” Curufin spoked in a specifically calm voice— Maglor remembered that he used to use this voice to say farewell to their mother.

Maglor didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but shut it again. The wind was cold, freezing all the words he could find.

He turned to look at the sea.

“You are almost finished,” he said in the end.

Curufin nodded. “The ships at the main wharf have had their own boatman. Telperinquar will find the rest of the ships.” He looked at his ships, “Someone is required to take the martyrs with us and bury their bodies in Cuiviénen. However, we may not have enough ships, those who are laying down will take more space than those who are standing up. Cuiviénen is too far, we may just have to leave them here.”

Maglor kept silent while Curufin spoke. He almost couldn’t recognize his brother. When Curufin mentioned those dead people, his voice was as calm as if he was just talking about their workshop’s new import building stones.

Curufin was usually unshakeable, he rarely changed his mind and was determined like his father. However, it was not like this— ignoring all the painful prices and losses. Nobody had more love in their heart then Fëanor did— nobody could love their own father more than Fëanor did, and nobody was more eager to keep what they love more than Fëanor did. That was why when Fëanor finally lost them, the pain he felt was beyond what anyone else could imagine. Just like their father, Curufin inherited these strong personality traits. Maglor knew this kind of love was still in Curufin’s heart. It was just hidden.

However, it was obvious that something has indeed changed.

Maglor felt pain at that moment. There was something that had been lost in his heart, leaving a void that nothing could ever fill.

Curufin perceptively looked at his second brother, but said nothing. He just stood there, waiting for Maglor’s next words.

“Where is father?” Maglor asked.

“‘Father’”, Curufin repeated that word, slowly, as if he didn't know what that word meant. He looked at Maglor’s eyes, “You mean the High King of the Noldor.”  
Maglor felt stifled. Something has submerged him, like the night submerged the sun.

Now he knew what had changed.

He should have known it earlier.

At some point in their early life they lost the right to say “Dad” and began to call Fëanor “Father”. Maglor didn’t foresee that someday, they would also lose the privilege of “Father” and be only left with “King”.

But this made sense.

After all, their identity and stance, responsibility and purpose, had all changed. They turned from protectors to revengers, chasing love to fulfilling hate. Maglor heard his inner voice asking, “What were you expecting?”

“He is conducting the ships,” he heard Curufin said, “Decide the route and order of the ships. Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë are also there, but they could not negate the High-King’s decision.”

“You always know, right?” Maglor asked, “When he commands that order, you know it will become like this—”

“Kano, what is in your hand?” Curufin suddenly questioned.

Maglor was puzzled for a second— unhappy for being interrupted. When he looked down, he found the sword hilt he was holding.

His father crafted that sword.

Curufin also put his hand on his sword and drew it from the scabbard— with his backhand pulling the sword just a foot out.

“You had asked me if I knew it or not,” Curufin replied, “This is my answer: it would not be a factor of my action. I do not love them or hate them and if my heart recognizes this battle as a crime or not, it doesn't matter. We just need to keep going.” Curufin looked at his sword, “Do you fear darkness, Kano? We are already in it. Do you hate it? If we stop at any part of this journey, then it will be our ending.” He looked up to the sea and said, “So we can’t stop. Those fair or evil things we swore by, it must be fulfilled by us. The only thing I can’t take on this road is inaction— if anything happens because of my own hesitation, then I will spat at it and myself.”

Maglor looked at Curufin’s face and digested the meaning of his words— things which they have already gained and lost, things that they could or could never succeed at. He remembered Maedhros’ unspoken words, the paleness of the twins’ face, the ferocity in Celegorm’s eyes, and the futile muttering of Caranthir.  
Then he sought further. At that moment, he thought about the square of Tirion— graceful architectures shining under Laurelin’s light. There stood sculptures which were made by his mother, which had him and his brother’s faces— replacing them to look out at the city which they may never see again.

Mother.

Maglor began to look forward to the break of the day, the light will be spraying from the back of the mountains, the darkness will be dispersing before it and revealing the true face of the world.  
Then he noticed that the night would not pass anymore. The light of the Two Trees was gone. The Silmarils were taken— there was no light anymore.

So, Maglor did not know if it was him or Curufin who had left the stage first. The light shrank behind Maglor’s back. He walked into a dark and remote place, the winding trail swallowing the spot of the wharf.

There was no light.

He was alone again.

A lonely white ship was shown before Maglor. The colossus floated on the sea. In a lightless night, all of the darkness of the world formed like one shadow.  
Seeking and re-seizing—

They must—

— They need that light.

Maglor put his hands on his knees, gasping and shaking— something was about to rush out from his soul, throwing his voice to be born into the world.

Light shined behind Maglor’s back.

A familiar flame was approaching him. Maglor looked back. Maedhros was standing there, a torch was in his left hand and his right hand was holding Maglor’s harp.

Then he held the torch.

“Kano,” Maedhros said, “It’s begun.”

**Author's Note:**

> My most grateful gratitude to Lisa, for I’m not a English person and she helped me a lot to fix the grammar mistakes I made and offered me many better words to use. Without her this work can never been done.


End file.
